One Hundred and Ten Years
by Maddeline Kirkland-Bonnefoy
Summary: - So much fore a "happy anniversary." - Entente Cordial/FrUk Day one-shot. Warnings inside. More hurt than comfort, and a dash of romance just because it's France.


**Just a little thing I did for the Entente Cordial, or FrUk day~**

**(And because my girlfriend, my England, doesn't give a shit...)**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing.**

**WARNING(S): Yaoi (duh, though perhaps more shounen-ai), a swear word from England, and a hinted at eating disorder.**

* * *

It had been a normal evening. Arthur had been watching shows randomly on Netflix from the 1980s and 1990s, while Francis had been texting with his younger sister Claire. As it was late, the two had been trying to keep things quiet. But then, the time shifted, the clock struck midnight, and Francis _twitched_. Yes, the ever-suave Frenchman twitched, but, given what day it was, it was understandable. Trying to calm himself, which worked better than he had expected, France looked over the top of his phone for a moment. Just as quickly he averted his gaze to the message screen once more. The blue-eyed blonde was trying to not let it get to him. He knew Arthur loved him; he truly did, but… But it was April 8th, 2014. The Entente Cordial had been over a century ago; one hundred and ten years, to be exact. It was their one-hundred-and-tenth wedding anniversary.

And Arthur didn't even glance at him.

Feeling more hurt than he wanted to admit, the Frenchman finished his message to his younger sister, and closed his phone. Placing said phone on the couch cushion, he stood, and made his way to the kitchen. Maneuvering his way around his laptop – well, _their_ laptop, as Arthur used it more often than Francis did – which had been set on the floor when the Brit's attention had been moved to the television, France shivered slightly when the carpet of the living room changed to the tile of the dining room. Maybe he should wear socks more often…? No, there wasn't a point; his feet were (just as the rest of him was) always freezing no matter what. Flicking the light switch on the wall, the kitchen was illuminated. He had just been about to open the fridge (he wasn't hungry; he had been feeling good about what he _hadn't_ eaten that day, but he ate when he was stressed), long, pale, boney fingers curled about the stainless-steel handle, when –

"Francis?"

When the sound of Arthur's voice broke the silence, the older blonde nearly jumped. Composing himself quickly, he dropped his hand, and turned on the ball of his foot. It felt almost like a ballet maneuver, and his steps might have been a bit lighter as he traipsed back into the living room. Curling himself into the space beside the Englishman, Francis took the hand that was offered to him, smiling softly at how wonderfully warm it was, curled within his icy fingers. Then England looked at him, and smiled a bit, just a tiny, crooked curl of the corner of his lips. France felt his heart stop. He was going to say it! Arthur was actually going to – !

"Could you make me some food? A snack of some kind?"

And all of his hopes shattered. Forcing a smile to his lips, even though this hurt more than it should have, Francis nodded, and leaned close to press a kiss to the smaller blonde's forehead. As he should have expected, he was pushed away before he could make any sort of contact. Retreating, he slipped his hand away, feeling colder than ever, and stood from the couch. Turning, he injected emotion into his voice, as he made his way back into the kitchen.

"Is zhere anyzhing in particular you would like, ma cher? Or per'aps you could just 'ave moi, non~?"

"Sod off and just make me the damn food, you tosser."

Better to have this normalcy, forced as it may have been, than to let Arthur see his heart breaking into a million pieces.

* * *

Later, roughly an hour or so, the Frenchman followed his British spouse upstairs to their bedroom. Stopping at the top of the stairs, he thought back over what he had just done, to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything that Arthur had told him to do. Yes, he had checked on their cats. Both animals had enough water to last the night and possibly the morning, and he had refilled their food dish. He had also folded up the afghan that England had been using, and laid it over the back of the couch. All the lights and electronics were turned off downstairs, and all the doors were locked. His cell phone was in his pocket, his charger dangling out a bit as well. Everything was in order. Satisfied that he had performed the tasks that had been meted out to him well enough, Francis slipped into the bedroom, casually nudging the door shut with his foot as he did so.

Arthur was already in his pajamas, as expected. The Brit was curled on the bed, petting his Scottish Fold cat as he read a book that the Frenchman couldn't be bothered to remember the name of, at the moment. Kneeling down beside the head of the bed, France plugged his charger into the power strip there, and then plugged in his cell phone as well. Rising to his feet once more, he reached under his pillow on his side of the bed for his pajamas. Pulling them out and doing his best not to ruffle the bed covers, the blue-eyed blonde tugged his shirt over his head. Ignoring the noise the Englishman made about his undressing somewhere other than the bathroom or the closet, the taller blonde stripped himself bare, tossing his jeans, polo shirt, and boxers in the general direction of the laundry hamper. Though normally he was a neat enough person, it was past 2:00AM, and he was tired.

Quickly dressing in his pajamas, Francis got into bed as well. He didn't try to remove the cat from his pillow - it was a losing battle, one that Arthur never sided with him on – just shifted it a little down so the feline would get the hint to move a bit. Situated, he was unsurprised to be handed his spouse's reading glasses, as well as the book the emerald-eyed blonde had been reading. As the bed was placed against the far and left-hand walls of the room, there was only one nightstand, and Francis slept on the outside of the bed. (When he slept at all, of course.) Placing the items in their correct places, he shifted so he was facing Arthur, and tucked the Brit in, as had become their nightly routine. Contrary to what might have been expected, however, he didn't try to steal a kiss, nor did he let his hands wander. Even France could only take getting hit or shoved so much, after all.

After murmuring a soft, "Bonne nuit, mon Angleterre," and receiving an equally soft, "Good night, France," in return, the older blonde shifted to lie on his back. Though he knew sleep would claim his Arthur quickly, as it always did, insomnia and hunger would keep the Frenchman awake for a while yet. Some time passed, Francis lost to his thoughts, before he judged that it was safe. Enough time had lapsed, and England would be deeply enough asleep for him not to risk physical injury. Turning, he scooted over to press flush against the other's back, curling an arm about his lover's midsection, spooning him from behind. Working up his courage, Francis kissed Arthur's cheek, and whispered the words he wished he had the nerve to say in broad daylight.

"Je t'aime, mon amour. Joyeux anniversaire, mon cœur Arthur."

So much for a happy anniversary…


End file.
